A quick word of warning. This blog is more about me being a bit of a racist than it is about Arsenal.

So…I was watching the Boreham Wood game, and just as it kicked off I saw Unai Emery bless himself, Catholic-style, and I thought to myself “Ahhh, he’s one of us.” Which is somewhat an odd thing to think, given, you know, I don’t believe in God. Not in a Bolshie in-your-face aetheist sort of way. But I just stopped believing in God in my early 20s, gradually. Up till that I was definitely Catholic. The good kind. Like my dad. Catholic AND tolerant. The priests in my school were for the most part brilliant. Anyway, I digress.

What did this mean, “he’s one of us?” I saw one of our footballers bless himself recently during a game, maybe AMN? And I had the same thought. One of us. And it felt slightly reassuring.

It’s about time we got a couple of Catholics into the Arsenal team. There was a time we had 5 or 6 Irishmen playing for Arsenal. AND I LIKED IT. It shouldn’t matter of course. But in a somewhat similar vein, I now have a couple of Blessers at Arsenal, which is great.

The Ozil-style Muslim praying before the game is cool too. But I definitely don’t get the “one of us pray-ers” vibe that maybe I should, even though I’m not a pray-er. But that contradiction doesn’t seem to occur to me when the Blessers are out there representing.

I should actually be rooting for the aetheists in the team, I suppose, given that I don’t really believe in God. The camera never zooms in on them aetheists before a game starts so I’m not sure what they do for that segment. Perhaps they murder someone, or sodomize each other, or sketch cartoons of The Prophet. I’ll ask Tim Stillman (cos he goes to matches, silly!)

Anyway, it’s all quite odd how I feel, even if it’s only micro-feelings that disappear almost as soon as they show up.

Maybe I’m a bit of a bigot. I don’t think I am. But then I wonder sometimes if I’m a teeny bit racist too. My wife says I am. But then she used to tell me I was an alcoholic just because I drank a skinful 4 or 5 nights a week. And look at me now!!! In your face, wifey!

My wife says I’m a racist because I’m a bit of a runner and I watch the Olympics and marathon races, 10Ks etc. And I love the sprints too. And I always root for the white guy. Not necessarily to win but to make the final of say the 100m. And then to actually be competitive. He doesn’t have to win but just not be shit. Like if the 7 black dudes are 10 yards ahead of the whitey I find that a bit depressing. But if one of the black dudes blesses himself before the race starts that cheers me up. Or if he has an Irish name, like Shaquille O’Neill, I like that. Especially if he seems nice, and not a dickhead. But Ideally I’d like the white dude to come 4th in a sprint for the line where they needed a photo finish to separate the top 4 so that, you know, the rightful winners got their places, and the white dude showed we were truly competitive.

I’m not joking either.

Same in the marathon: Kenyans are tops, and they should be. But couldn’t a white dude push them right to the line? That’s all I’m asking for. Though Mo Farah came 2nd in the London Marathon and that worked for me. He’s a Gunner. Also, many Kenyans are Catholic so that works too. In fact, quite a few of them were trained by an Irish priest, or more correctly a “Brother” named Brother O’Connell. So that’s pretty damn good. Now…would I prefer one of the Irish Brother’s Kenyan lads to win or some white American chappy? Probably the Kenyan. A Kenyan and 2 other Kenyan Catholics winning it with a white dude at least in the picture as they come up to the finish tape, thereby proving white dudes like me can run similar marathon times and compete (but we can’t) and still the best lad gets to win, so we’re all good.

OK. This algorithm is getting a bit complicated – the equation for “who is one of us” ie “one of me.”

It’s hard to know what the rules are. What MY rules are. If there was an Intergalactic Athletics competition and the 100m final lined up, and all the runners were weird looking blobby creatures in whom I could see no discernible similarities to my good self…Would I suddenly develop an affinity for the blob in lane 7 when the commentator shares the seemingly trivial fact that he is the only contestant that has a rectum, although he also uses it to breathe through? “Close enough! Come on, Number 7!”

France was one of the teams I was rooting for in the World Cup. As it happened, I liked the mix of the French football team. For all the African Team hype, people seemed to ignore the fact it had 5 white dudes in the starting XI – Lloris, Giroud, Griezman, Pavard, Hernandez. But whether it’s 2 or 4 or 5 or zero that got picked for the final, it wouldn’t have mattered to me cos I knew all the players as individual personalities. And I liked who I liked. I liked N’Golo Kante a lot. And of course, Olivier Giroud. And Mbappe – he’s a good kid. And I didn’t care about anything else

What I thought about the France vs Africa hype for the World Cup Final was…it’s fucking stupid. It doesn’t matter, does it? Don’t talk about it and if you do, don’t be “serious” about it. Keep it light. Some players and some supporters feel more or less attached to the identity of their ancestors’ country. Which is how the world is. But immigration and assimilation are serious and difficult topics in France and for the French. And I feel like the rest of us should stay out of it. What do we know of France? It’s different to the UK which is different to the US which is different to Ireland.

Then there’s the sexuality thing. If 2 International football teams were playing and 1 of them just happened to have a few gay fellas playing for them, I’d root for that team.. That’s the underdog factor. In fact, if whities were tops in Marathon running, I’d root for the black dude to win that race.

OK. So where are we now? I like underdogs apparently. This is a new wrinkle. Underdogs trump almost everything, even “my own kind” at times. Maybe because underdogs aren’t threatening?

But maybe if I saw the underdog as the first of many, say…the first of an inevitable “wave of immigrants” coming my way to dilute my culture and “my people.” Maybe then I’m not so sure I want him winning all our races. No pun intended. Yikes. The mind is a dark place.

When the Irish rugby team plays, I strongly root for the players in our team who come from my school. There are often 1 or 2. Now, those lads are very very much “one of us.” They are basically actually me. This is despite the fact that I specifically thought that about half the fellas in my school were absolute plonkers. And a good 20% were absolute bollixes. But I guess if the lad on the rugby team happens to be an absolute bollix, he is my absolute bollix. He is an absolute bollix who is “one of us,” the prick.

And then to really mess up my formula, there was this:

The Irish Women’s relay team who just won their relay semi-final to qualify for the World Championships Final. Now if you know anything about Irish Athletics, we are absolute shite at athletics. Fucking hopeless. We appear to be running backwards in all the sprint events, at least historically. But here we are winning things. And look at them. They’re beautiful.

And you could click on it and there was a video. And you hear their voices. And the first girl on the left has a lovely Carlow accent. And they’re all laughing cos they are girls and they won together. And it’s music. And the second girl has a Dublin accent and it’s lovely. And the third girl has an African-ish accent with a bit of Dublin mixed in, and it’s lovely.

It’s all lovely. And I want to cry. Why? I don’t know but I do really but I won’t explain it because some things sound much naffer when you explain them and justice can’t been done to the feelings.

And then don’t we go and get silver in the Final?! We do! Ireland…winning at sprints! By coming second.

What does it all mean? Am I a teeny bit racist or bigoted? Am I worse than the rest of you?

I’ve no idea but I’ll keep looking into it.

In the meantime…Up Unai Emery! Up The Gunners! Up The Catholics! Up Mo Farah! Down with Margaret Thatcher! Up with Sinead O’Connor! Up with Barack O’Bama! Down with Boris Johnson! Up with the Irish Women’s Relay Team! Up with seeing us all as being “one of us!”

Mikel Arteta headed out of the conference room pulling his packed travel case behind, a strange, tiny, furry hand stuck out through the gap between the zippers, seeming to wave as it bobbed.

After a tasteful pause, Ivan asked “OK then. Who’s up next?”

Raul Sanllehi looked up from his book (“DOF for Dummies”)

“It says here, Rube Goldberg,” Raul replied, the trace of a micro-smile disappearing quickly into the corners of his mouth.

“I HAFF NOT heard off HIM before AT ALL,” Sven Mislintat said with his usual arbitrary emphasis, then blew a puff of breath up to rustle his fringe.

Ivan scratched his chin. “Sounds very familiar. Isn’t that also the name of that fellow I wikipedia’d a few weeks ago who builds those fantastic, elaborate machiii…

Before he could get out his full question, the door swung open as a sleeved hand flung a fistful of sparkling dust onto the floor next to the podium. A puff of smoke and a flash of light and through the resulting cloud strode a handsome Latin gentleman, wearing a pristine black evening suit with white shirt sleeve cuffs that would not look out of place on a stage magician.

“Woah!” exclaimed Sven, gripping his chair and rolling back 5 feet to a safer distance.

Good hafternoon, LADIES…HAND…GENTLEMEN! said the mystery man, in a heavy Spanish accent.

“Welcome to da ha matinee,” as he bowed and swung one arm down so that is swung back up the other side and wrapped his waist.

Ivan and Sven looked at each other, befuddled.

“I am Unai.”

“Ahah!” cried out Sven. “I KNEW it!”

“But I haff manny nayeems: Unai when I play to hattack. Emery when I play to defend. Rube Goldberg when I tinker brilliantly with da tactical seeestems. And LaShondra when I cruise da night district.

“But today, standing before hayou…I ham…”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“…Rube Goldberg. Let Hoose Beeegeeen!”

In a dizzying flurry, Senor Goldberg rattled through a blur of tricks and illusions: rabbits disappeared, doves appeared, the Ace Of Spades was whipped out of Sven’s ass crack which only moments before Ivan had placed on the top of a deck of cards. And then the Arsenal Tea Lady was wheeled in, boxed up, and sawn in half. It should be noted to her great credit, by way of her screaming and flailing, she herself performed a passable impression of a woman being sawn in half, aided by special effects employing a minimum of 6 or 7 pints of blood spurting onto floor, ceiling and wall.

Raul looked on unflustered. Sven and Ivan, on the other hand, looked on in a state of utter shock.

Two medics no one had seen before, let alone called for, burst into the room, grabbed the illusionist boxes containing the two halves of the Tea Lady, and bolted out the door. The Senor’s commitment to the illusion remained total.

(We cannot describe the full horror of the defensive shit show he selected. Suffice it to say that it was an exemplar of peak Arsenal defence, as if manned by 7 giraffes on roller skates: Sanchez spills the ball. Xhaka gimps to meet it too slowly, Ramsey sprints 50 yards forward into the opposition 6 yard box, Jack gets bowled over trying to buy a foul. Koscielny sprints towards the ball but pulls a hammie. Mustafi comes careening in with a sliding tackle to save the day. Unfortunately that day is tomorrow. Kolasinac swings at the loose ball and slices it with such ferocious power straight into the back-pedaling Ospina’s gut who is already positioned behind the goal-line before the ball plows him into the back of the net.)

Ivan, red-faced with embarrassment, clears his throat and asks haltingly, “So I’m guessing your point is you will need to replace every member of the defence including the keeper?”

(OH fuck it. I’m exhausted. You can add your own crappy Spanish accent while you read!)

Senor Goldberg continued: Imagine if you will…we add a revolving bicycle wheel with an egg in a holder that dumps out on to a frying pan that flips the fried egg onto a plate that slides down a greased board knocking over a domino chain that triggers a mallet to swing down from the cross bar and smack Ospina on the back of the head so he falls forward spilling the ball to Bellerin who is now wide open due to the chaos. He lobs their shocked centerbacks who have their pants down THEREBY setting Aubameyang free to attack their goalkeeper, now RIPE for the slaughter.

There was an audible gasp from Gazidis and Mislintat. Leaping to their feet, they burst into spontaneous applause: Bravo, Maestro!! Bravissimo!!! ENCORE!!!

And as the two turned through the door, Sven was pretty sure that he saw Raul slap Senor Goldberg on the arse.

Ivan wheeled around to Sven. “Now THAT’s what I call a fucking presentation!”

Sven peered through his fringe like an Old English Sheepdog. “I must say that Mikel Arteta was fun with all the glove puppets for his tactics demo. And I did get to work the Aubameyang and Mikhi ones.”

Right. Well that was a fucking awesome game. Tactically we were superb in that we won. And we changed some shit tactically which always looks cool when other teams do it and which coincided with us not playing shit anymore but playing better than them. So it was a brilliant tactical change. That’s how I measure tactical changes. I’d give it a 19.3 xTC.

My blog is back. It’s been away for a while. I’d lost my mojo blog-wise. And also I’ve been suffering from some erectile dysfunction. My xED has been running at about 0.49. Smack it off the TV and the fridge a couple of times and I might get it up to 0.75 xED but that’s about the tops. So as you can imagine, when you blog the way I do, that’s going to affect your work.

Anyway, I’m back. And IT is magnificent. Behold Excalibur.

Blogging feels so passé these days. I have been feeling like I needed to come up with something new. But what? What’s my gimmick? Where’s my USP?

Stats! That’s the thing with the Yutes these days. Stats are the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King. I can stat with the best of them. Believe you me.

Take this. I did. I nicked it from Scott Willis (@oh_that_crab) who is often on the Pod I’m on. Oh yeah, I’m on a pod. Anyway, I hear Scott is really good. I wouldn’t know cos I never listen to pods. Well, apart from Arsecast. A lot of people seem to like the pod I’m on. I’ve heard it’s very good. I haven’t personally listened to it for over a year now cos it’s excruciating listening to myself (I’m sure you know where I’m coming from) and when I’m not on it, well, did I mention that I don’t really listen to pods? The only time I listen to our pod is while I’m on it which is the part I enjoy anyway. Also, it keeps me off the pole.

Anyway, yeah, stats. So I like Scott’s passing value table a lot. It’s got Mesut on top with Hazard just behind which lends it a lot of credibility. Jack is 3rd which is great cos I like Jack and I thought he was mostly good. And Xhaka is basically right with him which is nice cause they play together now and they won’t fall out over this, like two peas in a pod, so it’s nice they get the same score pretty much.

Iwobi and Nacho come after Bakayoko. I think there might be a mistake there cos Nacho was great. Iwobi was really good except a few times where he was utter dogshit. but overall, yeah, he was good AGAIN.

Elneny is a little bit behind Jack and Xhaka which makes sense. Keeping the formation.

I like stats that agree with how I feel in my tummy.

Scott also did this one…

It’s cool. It gives you their average touch position. I will not patronize you by explaining it. But Elneny has a big circle. And Mesut, Granit, Mustafi and Nacho. The left side in general kept themselves busy. And Xhaka.

This one is good. I borrowed it from that @11tegen11fella. It shows that we were better than Chelsea. Coincidentally we become better than Chelsea at the precise moment that we scored the second goal. Phew! That was good timing. And it makes perfect sense. And after that we got even better and Chelsea didn’t which is what I thought had happened. So this stat is good and he should keep doing these.

This one I also borrowed from 11Tegen11:

I’m glad we binned that Elneny tosser this window and replaced him with Elneny who has been a real find at DM. He’s only played two games for the club and yet magically fits in at DM and even drops into centerback between Koz and Mustafi to form a back 3 when needed – inflight. Uncanny. Sven and Raul have surpassed themselves.

But Mo. The Big Mo. Pulling the strings. What the fuck is going on. He’s making those podcast plonkers look like idiots, I’d imagine. Not me though. I’ve always backed him.

And Nacho. If I can borrow a phrase used to describe Elneny. What the fuck. He’s on fire. Like a girlfriend with a UTI. He’s a fucking demon.

And Laca’s got his groove on. Apparently all he needed was some people from his own team in the same half as him. I wonder why it took Wenger so long to try that.

And last but most. Mesut Fucking Ozil. He’s sex in a parked car and has been since pretty much the start of his season. Every fucking thing he does is sooo good.

I love Mesut. I loved tonight. I love Arsene. And I love you.

]]>https://poznaninmypants.com/2018/01/24/behold-excalibur-it-is-mighty/feed/13Jack HeadpoznaninmypantsScott WillisDUVyoX8U0AAckR_11Tegen0111Tegen02Mission Statementhttps://poznaninmypants.com/2017/04/16/mission-statement/
https://poznaninmypants.com/2017/04/16/mission-statement/#commentsSun, 16 Apr 2017 18:09:23 +0000http://poznaninmypants.com/?p=4812Continue reading →]]>Immediately after the United Chelsea result in the late afternoon of April 4th, every member of the squad received a mysterious but urgent call to assemble IMMEDIATELY at the London Colney training ground.

Within 30 minutes, every player had arrived. The group was buzzing and speculation was rampant as to the possible purpose of it all.

They waited, and waited some more. They expected Arsene Wenger to walk in at any moment but he did not arrive. As the group became more antsy, one of the players turned his attention to an antique tape recorder that was just sitting there. It was old-school, the kind that barely worked in the sixties.

“Should we?” Iwobi asked.

And with that, Xhaka leaned forward and pressed the play button.

Dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

diddlummmmm diddlummmmm diddlummmm

du dum.

Dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

dum dum du dum

diddlummmmm diddlummmmm diddlummmm

du dum.

Da daaaah.

Then a man with a thick French accent spoke. BUT it was not the voice of Arsene Wenger:

“Your mission Dan, should you decide to accept it, which you should, given the 100k+ a week they’re fucking paying you… is to go to White Hart Lane on April 30th, and fuck up the Spuds’ season right royally, crush their hearts, extinguish all belief, cause mothers to disavow their sons, sow salt into the fields of Carthage, lay waste to their lands, raze their villages, rape their cattle and stampede their women.

Beyond that, anything else you cats can manage this season is a bonus.

As always, should you or any of your I.M. Force be caught or killed, or make any effort to win the second ball in midfield even, God Forbid… the Secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape will self-destruct in five seconds. Good luck, Dan”

And with that, the tape did indeed self-destruct…

Gabriel spoke up to ask the question that no one else was thinking: “Who was that??”

And so, as the next match approaches, I begin my weekend rituals and ablutions in preparation for another moment when our season, and so much more, hangs by a thread, suspended from a capricious hand of fate.

This mischievous puppeteer makes dance a series of invisible wires, stretched taut by the weight of the objects hanging far below on this earthly plane. They bounce, swing and collide with each other…our season, Mesut, Arsene, Champions League qualification, St Totteringham’s Day, the next 2, 3 or 4 years, Sanchez, the supporter base…all jangling, dancing, colliding.

It’s only Middlesbrough. Away. What could possibly go wrong. And then it’s on to Manchester City and Wembley and The FA Cup. “But what if we beat Manchester City, go on to win the Cup, and Wenger decides to stay,” many worry. Ok, but what if we don’t beat Manchester City, lose the FA Cup and Wenger decides to stay, I worry.

The whole support base are united in wanting Wenger to leave at the end of this season. It is now unanimous. These are dangerous times. And like Winston Smith in Orwell’s 1984, it is not safe around here to harbour heretical thoughts, and so you do not share them. Occasionally, you catch a look of another supporter walking in the opposite direction, a glance, an odd aspect that causes you to wonder if they too might share your dark thought. The darkest of thoughts. But to find out might cost you everything.

To be fair, what cannot be argued is that Wenger cannot turn things around at this point. He’s clearly done. His goose is cooked by his own fair hand. It might have been possible a year or 2 ago. But not now. The ship has sailed… and hit the iceberg. The string quartet plays as a wealthy American gentlemen wraps a woman’s scarf about his head, and grabs a confused child, a stranger to him, the better to push a young mother holding a slightly older child out of the lifeboat queue. Stanley Kroenke is a bastard.

Just as Federer started this year too old and broken to win another major – his competition too young, too fast, too strong, and he not having won a major since 2012 and before that, 2010. Just as Garcia started another year, already destined and condemned to head the List of Best Players Never To Win a Golf Major, something he had accepted himself at the 2012 Masters: “I’m not good enough … I don’t have the thing I need to have. In 13 years I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to play for second or third place.” At 19 he finished second to Tiger Woods at the 1999 PGA Championship at Medinah, announcing his presence to the world. He has been coming second best ever since. He just doesn’t have what it takes.

Anyway, that’s sport. Some things are certain. We should protect ourselves and write off the minor possibilities. It’s safer that way.

And so I ready my soul to be crushed once more, my heart ripped from my chest, flung on the ground, and stamped on by a metal boot. The only question is, will that be by Manchester City, or even sooner, by Monday.

I walk to my Library inside my Conservatory housed in my Observatory located in the East Wing. I sit in my upholstered green leather armchair behind my mahogany study desk. The framed photo of my Ryder Cup-looking blonde wife and blonde-headed children, all 3 or 4 of them, is partially obscured by my autographed copy of Shakespeare’s Hamlet which takes pride of place. The hand-written inscription within, I have shown proudly to any and every visitor:

To my truest of friends,

Love to Poz,

Willie xxx.

Psst: The answer is ‘Be!’

Dear, dear, darling Willie. I do miss him terribly.

On the wall opposite my desk is my Quadri-Curved 180” HD TV with Emoji-tron, purchased only this week so that I can see that tear roll down Arsene’s cheek if perchance the cameraman flinches from descending upon the man’s private public grief.

I do not know exactly how I will feel. Sadness has so many flavours. I have readied Binkie and Blankie. Binkie, my childhood teddy bear with one glass eye and a thread where the other should be, and Blankie, my blankie.

My favourite Scotch, Glen Crevice’s Taint – with hints of smoke, the bogs, Scotsman’s sweat-soaked kilt (complete with certificate attesting that “under which no underpants were worn), flailing sporran, and unwashed fingers – sits in the cut-glass crystal decanter. Upon further reflection, I may swap the Scotch for a bottle of Jameson 18.

In the cupboard of the near wall, I have cleared some space, hung some ropes and ties, and pinned up my David Carradine poster.

You never know how you are going to feel until you are feeling it.

I have written a Last Will and Testament, and left it in the other drawer. In it I leave each member of my family’s possessions to another member of my family. A kind of enforced Kris Kindle, if you will. (My fortunes have taken a dire turn in recent times but I want to be sure to leave them all something.)

And so, as the match begins, I will raise the first glass of Scotch to my lips, my hand trembling so violently that scarcely a drop makes it to my parched lips. This is the hand to hold the Colt with, if the time comes. It gives me a sporting chance, and that’s all you can ask for. And a bit of luck and a bit of support. Ask Roger and Sergio.

]]>https://poznaninmypants.com/2017/04/14/consider-my-loins-girded/feed/2poznaninmypantsgird up your loins illustration diagram Oxlade-Chamberlain is not the Santi Arsenal wants…https://poznaninmypants.com/2017/02/13/oxlade-chamberlain-is-not-the-santi-arsenal-wants/
https://poznaninmypants.com/2017/02/13/oxlade-chamberlain-is-not-the-santi-arsenal-wants/#commentsTue, 14 Feb 2017 04:20:33 +0000http://poznaninmypants.com/?p=4526Continue reading →]]>“Oxlade-Chamberlain is not the Santi Arsenal wants, but the one it needs right now.” – Lt. James Gordon.

The betting has Arsenal at 5/1 against for the win in Munich. Seems about right. And 10/3 for a draw. Gulp. Could be a rough night.

And yet…a front 6 of

Iwobi Alexis Welbeck

Ozil

Xhaka OX

A back 4 of

Nacho/Gibbs KoStafi Bellerin

And a bench containing

Giroud Perez Walcott Elneny Coquelin

I’ve Seen Worse.

It might still be the deepest team we’ve sent into the Round of 16 for a long, long time. And a very fast team, geared to the counter when getting an away goal is vital.

Bayern are the best team in Germany by some measure but they are not addicted to pressing and they play a 4231, God bless them. So we should have our chances too.

I’d take a score draw and get them back to the Emirates, where we can get battered by them. It’s a short train ride home for us.

OX is the key, for me. If he can finally deliver on his promise, he solves so many problems. The current theory I’m grasping at is:

OX is playing far better, far more focused, with better decision-making, and fewer unforced errors/hospital passes because he is playing in a busier area. The midfield role means he is fully engaged for the full 90. Up high on the right wing, he can go for 2 or 3 or 5 minutes without a meaningful touch, and he just can’t stay engaged, despite himself.

He may simply be a high functioning ADHD-er. He’s great if he is kept involved – which is good news because nobody is busier than a Box-To-Box midfielder and in recent matches, no one has covered more ground than him while he is on the pitch – and so he maintains his attention, keeps his feel for the game, sees the danger, makes good decisions.

Compared to the wing, the extra room he enjoys on the ball during certain periods of the game when we’re not being pressed builds his confidence. He grows into the game.

If I’m Bayern, I am hoping he doesn’t play.

The midfield every Gooner wanted to see this season was either Xhaka/Santi or Xhaka Ramsey. We were only given a brief glimpse before those 2 options were extinguished. We will never know in time if either of those pairings could truly deliver what this Arsenal needs to perform against the top teams – what Ozil and Alexis need to perform against the top teams.

But we have Xhaka back. That’s a start.

And so I offer you Xhaka/Chamberlain in their stead.

For if you were to take Santi and Ramsey and coax them into breeding – perhaps you might manually stimulate one of them to get things started…I don’t know…I’m just speculating – with the aim of producing an offspring capturing all of their best abilities – quick feet, quick on the half-turn, handling the press, an eye for a pass, good on the dribble, flicks and tricks a-plenty, ambifootstrous, box-to-boxiness, range to cover the ground, clever lobs and crosses…and then graft on an electric burst, quick on the counter, plus speed to leave opponents in the dust, then you might have the OX when he’s on song – on song in a way we haven’t seen him for 3 seasons or more. On song like when he took Ferguson’s United apart at the tender age of 7, or at least that’s how I remember it.

Xhaka needs a partner who can handle the press. Perhaps OX can. And unlike others who will remain nameless, he has the speed to recover a mistake, or to cover a midfield opponent on the burst, and the bustling physique to wrestle the ball clear, and even a taste for a tastier tackle.

It’s a long shot. The tombstone has been chiseled, the parson has done his turn, the body of our season has just been chucked into the six-foot-deep hole, the dirt is on our shovel…but did the corpse just cough?!??

You say it’s the hope that kills you. I say that attitude is why you’re dead inside. Dead, I tell you.

Power up the OX. Strap on the Xhaka. Grab the BIG Cortisone needle we’ve been saving for Welbeck’s knee. Tell Alexis the Germans killed his other Grandfather…the one he never knew. Don’t say anything at all to Mesut. And let’s give these Bavarian Surrender Monkeys a damn good Rogering. ALLAAAAAAAAAHUUUUAKBARRR!!!!

It seems oddly fitting that Lucas Perez keeps slipping from our consciousness. He arrived with much fanfare and speculation. The season started. And then we waited to see our first proper sighting of Perez. And waited. And waited.

When we eventually did see him start, it was in games of lesser consequence. And then. Finally. He arrived. He a proper start. More than that…he played well.

Then he got injured. Rinse and repeat.

It seems oddly fitting that Lucas Perez keeps slipping from our consciousness because his background story would do Jason Bourne proud…

Goes off the grid or into exile. Or both. Bumping around the lower leagues in Spain before loan stints with two Ukrainian clubs followed by a move to Greece on a 3-year contract at PAOK FC.

He described the end of his Ukrainian Odyssey as a “nightmare.” Greece was better for Lucas, and after just a year there he got the call to “come in from the cold” ie come home to Langley, Virginia Deportivo La Coruna, his hometown club, which had just been promoted to La Liga, and was going to try to stay there. Now he had a La Liga club berth AND a mission. He played his first match for Deportivo, scored, and was immediately injured. Then was out till the following January. That has a familiar ring to it.

But in his first of two seasons at Deportivo, he played a vital role for them, scoring in a relegation decider to keep La Coruna up, in the first season. And in the second season, leading Deportivo to a vital 2-2 draw away to the new Champions, Barcelona, at the Camp Nou – that game we all saw highlights from, where Perez single-handedly dragged his team to a result, doing everything from scoring, mammoth defensive work, bullying the opposition and his own players, and motherfucking Lionel Messi up one side and down the other to make him miss a peno…which he did. He saved his club. If you can ever WILL your team to victory, that was it in the flesh. He was thoroughly obnoxious. So much so, Barcelona did their best to sign him ahead of us.

He sounds like a guy you want on your side when you’re going down the stretch of your season. Or playing Chelsea.

Let me make my position clear. I love Lucas Perez. Based on the little we have seen, and what you can learn about the guy’s Bourne-esque past.

Perez has something no other Arsenal player but perhaps Sanchez has. He’s hardened, tempered steel.

“The term hardened-steel is often used for a medium or high carbon steel that has been heat-treated and then quenched followed by tempering, resulting in the formation of metastable martensite, the fraction of which is reduced to the desired amount during tempering.

The same effect can be achieved by surviving the descent into the Spanish Third League, getting screwed over in the Ukrainian League, fighting your way out of the Greek League and twice dragging your hometown club over the line to safety in La Liga.”

He’s like a pitbull over a bone. The lad has barely played for us – 7 starts and 6 from the bench in all comps (in the PL he has 2 starts and 5 from the bench) yet has 6 goals and 4 assists.

He had a bunch of soft tap-ins in the CC and Basel game but…he knows how to get to the 6 yard box before the defender, and that equals goals.

And we’ve seen him put in excruciatingly ripe crosses along the 6 yard box line that begged to be tapped home…and weren’t.

Lucas Perez reminds me of my dog. Now, if you think that’s an insult then… I just don’t think you understand. You see…

I’ve got the best dog around, I just don’t think you understand.

He’s nicer then yer Mom, He’s better than Atom,

I’ve got the best dog around.

“Tell me the ways in which Lucas Perez is like your dog, Poz.”

Let me explain further…When I am in the kitchen, hacking away at a turkey, or a chicken, or really anything of a meat denomination, my dog goes full Perez, watching every move or twitch, anticipating where I might just possibly drop that scrap of turkey, or as my dog calls it, a knock-down. He also describes my hold-up play as crude but effective.

And so it is with Perez and Giroud. Perez reads every move Giroud makes with the same lazer-focus and touch of clairvoyance that you see between a sheep herder and his collie. The man-dog interface aka The Giroud:Perez axis. Perez is fully zoned in on the scraps off Giroud’s kitchen table. He gives us a second striker when the opposition parks the bus, and his movement and runs on the counter and in more open play creates new possibilities. He’s got quick feet, tight control, he’s physical, aggressive, clever, and he don’t take no shit.

When people place Sanchez and Giroud on the blind scales of footballing justice to weigh their prospective value at Center Forward, they may find a new weight added to the Giroud pan. That of Senor Perez. It’s a package, if the manager sees what I see. They should also weigh up the effect of our new midfield pairing. With Ramsey now on hand from the right side of midfield to bomb into the box, will that work better with Giroud there or with Sanchez acting as a false nine?

In just the last few games we have seen Giroud do his “flick over the defence” trick for Perez to catch a sweet volley that got us going in our Bournemouth comeback.

The goal is set up by Giroud working the ball wide to Sanchez who rolls it back to Xhaka, Xhaka bangs it into Giroud, perfect flick, perfect volley. The comeback is in full swing.

And then the pièce de résistance – The winner against Preston – a long ball into the box from Ramsey to Giroud’s noggin, the knockdown that Perez anticipates, the classy, tricky backheel from Perez perfectly into Giroud’s path, which he then bundles into the goal. Another comeback.

Some have said that Giroud up top doesn’t lead to exciting football. They are right for the most part. But that was before Perez, who didn’t start the Bournemouth game. He came on before the comeback started and then we saw some pretty exciting football.

Sanchez-Giroud-Perez
Ozil
Ramsey and Xhaka

will be an interesting line-up to see. Effective? Exciting? Time will hopefully tell us, and soon.

The Preston game was without Sanchez or Ozil. So we don’t really know too much yet. Perhaps the Giroud-Perez axis will free up Sanchez to cause trouble in his own mode. Ramsey may profit from the Giroud-Perez orbit.

Giroud, Perez, Ramsey seem to be finding ways to combine to great effect, based on our small sample size. Evidence can be seen in all the goals of the last two matches, if you look close enough.

The Sanchez vs Giroud debate is set to rage on, but Giroud+Perez makes that a much more interesting and exciting comparison for my money.

Note: This is not about football this time. This is a story from my dating days…

My girlfriend asked me to clean out her skin care bag. 37 items! How does anyone hold down a job with 37 skin care items, I ask you?

I said, 37 items for skin care and makeup? How do you get anything done? How do you hold down a corporate job?

“Oh, that’s not my makeup. Just my skin care.”

She whips out yet another bag, probably 25 or more items.

“My God, that’s at least 60 items. And that’s not even all your stuff.”

“I don’t use them all at the same time, stupid.”

Note: None of the quantities mentioned in this story have been inflated. Trust me.

Now, in her defence…She is French. And weird. And like with the Nature vs Nurture debate it’s almost impossible to know where to lay the blame. In the French vs Weird debate, I’m betting on French.

I said, “I have zero items. And that’s why my kind will crush your kind.”
(I’m not sure who we’ll be breeding with yet. But we have time.)

She said, “That’s why I look like this and you look like that, you grizzled old piece of leather.”

This was an effective rebuke by her that I hadn’t seen coming, like Bruce Lee’s 1 inch punch. I retreated towards the door and then spun around with the perfect come-back. “Well…you lather yourself in all these products and yet my ass is smoother than your face.”

She said, “There is no way your nasty ass is smoother than my face.”

I said, “Right, that’s it. We’re going to have this out. A smooth-off. Your face against my ass…

We hire a small Asian midget…”

“They’re all small.”

“The midgets? Or the Asians?”

“The midgets.”

“Yes, but this one will be smaller. Anyway, we hire an Asian midget with soft, soft hands. Perhaps a silk-worker. We blind-fold him. We tell him nothing. We create an ass-cheek sized glory hole, and then we go at it mano a mano. He has no idea what’s coming at him though your honker of a nose may throw him a curveball after he’s felt the smooth undulating contours of my pert, convex buttock.

And then the midget calls it. Let the best man win. We live with the judgment.”

The understanding that Alexis Sanchez and Mesut Ozil are now displaying is fairly breath-taking at times.

They are becoming a continuation of each other, becoming more and more interchangeable on the pitch with every game as seen most clearly when Ozil takes the striker spot and waits on the shoulder of the last man while Sanchez drops deep to become the playmaker. And then they revert back again.

Both players favour drifting to the left to find a pocket of space, and so this synchronous understanding is essential. It’s a thin line between a blessing and a curse. For them, it’s a blessing as they seek each other out to play at close quarters this time or reverse roles the next.

Their relationship has reached the comfort levels of an old married gay couple finishing each other’s sentences.

Picture goes blurry…as we are transported to another time and place. That time is December 24th, 2056.

“Welcome to our Christmas edition of WHERE ARE THEY NOW. The show where we track down the famous and infamous of yesterday,” I announce.

And this week we have a special bonus for you. Two for the price of one when we sit down with Alexis Sanchez and Mesut Ozil Sanchez.

“Alexis. Mesut. Thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home to spend some time with you and your wonderful Labradors, Martinez and Emi.”

“You are so welcome,” Alexis and Mesut chime together.

They were a picture of domestic bliss, as they sat together in festive knitted sweaters, sharing a cup of hot cocoa, the words “World’s Number One Dads” written on the outside. Now both in their late sixties, they live a quiet life in the Devon countryside.

I asked them both, “Everyone remembers your exploits with Arsenal Football Club, crowned off by winning the Double in 2017 and in 2018, and the Champions League in 2019.

But for the two of you, when did your love story actually begin?”

A: I guess you would have to say the Bournemouth Home game at the start of the 2016/17 season. We had been finding each other all through the game, it must have been obvious to everyone watching, and when it was over…

M: We just didn’t want to stop finding each other for the rest of that evening.

A: Or the next morning

They giggled like kids at the freshness of the memory.

You two are a heart-warming pair, I must say. And the way you finish each other’s sentences.

So…was it hard coming out in football at that time. When did you first realize you were gay?

A: Oh, we’re not gay.

M: No, no. We’re not gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

A: No, absolutely. Live and let live. To be honest, it would have made things a lot simpler for us if we were gay. It would avoid all the awkwardness and embarrassment when we’re intimate with each other. So, like, every night. Heh, heh.

Mesut giggled coquettishly, exchanging a shy and tender moment.

M: It was all so new to both of us…so it was definitely more exciting. And still is.

They laugh again in tandem.

A: And believe you me, Mesut does like to finish.

M: Alright now, quit bragging! We have told the world more than enough.

It was clear that after all these years the spark between them was very much alive

Later on that short afternoon, we took a leisurely walk on the beach not too far from their home, with Alexis and Mesut and their 2 dogs. Mesut found a stick to play fetch, and they would bound back with it between their teeth, tongues flopping around, eager for the reward of a dog treat and a pat on the head. Alexis won 7 out of 8.

But if one moment spoke to the love between this couple, it was when, sitting again on the sofa in their living room, I made the mistake of asking Mesut,

“Mesut, how did this unlikely couple ever workout? I mean, here you both are. Alexis, famously, the most energetic and tireless player in football and you the laziest.”

My clumsy effort to be clever and funny touched on an old wound, causing a visible pang to shoot across his face for an instant.

Before he could answer, Alexis squeezed his arm gently and said,

“Mesut was never understood. He usually ran further than everyone else. He played almost every minute of every game. And he was never lazy. He saw the game differently, that’s all. He saw it not for what it was but for what it could be. And then he made it happen.”

Mesut looked down and across to Alexis’ hand and squeezed him back.

It said everything about this adorable, and now truly inseparable pair.

I thought to apologize but realized in that moment that they were barely aware I was still there.

It was one of the most charming and heartfelt of afternoons.

As I was about to say my goodbyes, Alexis suddenly sat bolt upright, ears pinned back, then shot out through the patio doors, leapt the balcony rail and sprinted to the bottom of the long garden where there stood a towering oak tree.

Unfortunately, narratives are far neater than reality. (Reality is a thoroughly messy affair upon close inspection.) When me and them other professional journalists write our stuff for you, we simplify, we drop the nuance and the detail. We draw themes. It’s more exciting that way. A hero and a villain. One side “dominates” the other. “There was now an inevitability to the game…until it suddenly changed…and then changed back again…” (Also known as “it had never actually been inevitable.”)

To be fair, it’s how we, the supporters, also feel while watching the match. All those emotion chemicals swishing through our veins and washing over our brains.

Ahh…but reality. In the words of The Duke of Wellies, “It was a damned close run thing.” “Whose outcome was in doubt at every minute.” (I said that last bit.)

The reality of last night’s AFC PSG game is that it was always in the balance. Verratti and Motta were a bit brilliant and had the bad taste to come to our gaff and show us how midfield is really done. (Note: Whether you really want an eye-liner wearing raccoon running your midfield in the hard-man’s Premier League, I’m not so sure. On a cold wet Wednesday night in Stoke, his mascara will run.)

The problem is, we are all binary in our opinions when emotions run high. We are all zeros and ones. “Their midfield was superb. Ours was shit. Couldn’t pass. Didn’t cover.” Except…except…that’s not actually what happened.

The bit about PSG’s midfield is true. They WERE superb. But…Ramsey and Coquelin were pretty damn good. Go back and watch the 1st half and the start of the second. Just watch those 2 midfielders. They were good. They tackled, they harried, they pressed. They passed progressively, cleverly on occasion. They got forward. They covered back. They kept their relative spacing for the most part. Both of them. They were good. Not great. Just…good.

I expected the worst from that pairing. We all probably did. The Xhaka camp. The Ramsey camp. They were all livid before the game. And when we struggled to match PSG in midfield, the knives came out for Wenger, Coquelin, Ramsey. Et three, Brute.

But…it was actually, surprisingly, pretty good for the most part. It wasn’t actually their fault that every player on the team took it in turn to spill the ball a couple of times for no good reason during the 1st 30 minutes, and beyond. PSG will hurt you when you do that. And they did. Just as they did in Paris.

My main criticism of CoqSey last night was they did little to solve the “get the ball to Ozil between the lines” problem. And to be fair, that’s kind of a big deal. It’s probably a deal-breaker, given how we currently set up. Perhaps we should factor in that it was Ramsey’s first game at CM, paired with Coquelin or really anyone, for forever. (Note: I am something of a “Ramsey in midfield” skeptic, and I wanted to see Xhaka start ahead of either player, just so you know.)

However, in this particular match, our midfield 2 was pitted against a wiley midfield 3 from PSG whose clear objective was to press and isolate Ozil, with the support of their under-employed and intelligent center-backs. That was job #1 defensively for PSG and Unai Emery. And they did it very well. Perhaps we needed to tweak the formation in anticipation of this, to have our own midfield 3, moving Ozil to start from the wing. It’s been done by Madrid, Germany and even Arsene in the past and for the same reason.

This was an all-action midfield, tackling, jumping on the scraps, forcing turnovers, playing 1-2s, bursting forward, covering back.

For those who said we started slowly like we weren’t amped up to compete, watch it again. We started fast. We battled but we lacked cohesion. It wasn’t till around the 15th minute that PSG wrested control and start to set the tempo, and worked us over till they created the goal.

Regardless, by around the 25 minute mark we got our teeth back into the match. From 35 minutes onwards to the end of the half, we had the upper hand, turning the tide as we pressed in packs up-field to win back the ball…We owned the last 10 minutes.

Then a piece of brilliance by Ozil gave us our just reward with that angled, cutback to Sanchez, ESPing it onto Sanchez’s foot who was coming up blind from behind. Then Sanchez did what no other player does better or quicker. He changed direction. Bang.

We started the 2nd half as we ended the first – effort, pressing, energy. Forcing turnovers up-field and in dangerous positions. But apparently none of this counts compared to silky passing.

The passage of play leading up to our second was swimmingly excellent. Beautiful movement, dovetailed and angled runs, Alexis carving a diagonal groove, and swinging a perfect pass to where Jenks’ mind was already made up for him, thank God. Jenks did as instructed, aiming a low squared cross into the danger zone, and Alexis followed his arc to meet it in the 6 yard box and with an outstretched danger-leg, forcing a harried clearance which pinged off Verratti, scrambling back in an attempt to cover the danger from the dangerous cross into the danger zone upon which the ever-dangerous Sanchez was at that very moment swooping to conquer.

We created a lot of danger.

Lucky? Fuck off. All goals are lucky and require the opposition to play their part. This one we earned. Crank up enough pressure by moving the defence all around, creating the gaps, getting the ball into the most dangerous zone with attackers flying in to meet it. SAF made a living out of that. Bravo, Alexis. Bravissimo.

So there we stood at 2-1. I’ve gotta say, it felt fair to me at that moment in time. And in no sense could PSG say at that point “Hmmm, this is going to plan. We have this right where we wanted it.” We had twisted and tangled them since the start of the 2nd half, as we had at the end of the first.

What you could say about the rest of the game is…PSG have a group of top class technical players who know how to go through the gears when needed. Verratti is The Truth and Motta is a Mudda.

Conversely, we had expended a huge amount of energy pressing upfield to chase the 2 goals. I’d guess the manager is kicking himself for not making the subs quicker and bringing on fresh legs. (As he probably should have against United.)

I read a lot of “They wanted it more than us. We stopped pushing for a goal, ffs.” I suspect we were totally shagged out from pressing non-stop to get the 2 goals. Let’s be honest, our pressing is not the most efficient and sophisticated in Europe. That’s gonna hit yer legs at some point mid way through the 2nd half, no matter who you are, efficient or not. That Iwobi was still on the pitch at 77’ to make a tired block is a bit of a mystery to me.

Regardless, Ramsey and Coquelin continued to graft, tackle, harry and hustle, force turnovers, pass and run.

It’s only 3 minutes before the PSG equalizer that Ramsey forces a turnover, then charges upfield into the 6 yard box to slide and swing at a tantalizingly curved Sanchez cross to the far post.

All action. Just another inch of fitness, and he’s the hero of the night. 3-1.

Score then and no one would have said a win was unfair. On the night I’d say a win, loss or draw were ALL fair results.

The commentator, after they equalized for 2-2: “It’s been a great encounter to this point. They are both going for the win.” Rough translation: This could go either way. It could have, but we were dead ish on our feet.

We made 3 attacking changes. Because we WERE going for it. But it didn’t fix the 7 other knackered outfield players. They tried, though. We had a good spell of pressure up in the left corner around the 80th minute. We had a few more attacks upfield, including the Chamberlain cross into the box that made you think of Old Trafford last Saturday. A frustrating number of our counters, 4 or 5 during the game?, were snuffed out by tactical fouls. And it pisses me off.

Add another factor to the display, the number of loose balls played by us that had nothing to do with our midfield. Constant. They probably cost us the game, if not the battle for control, and sapped our legs to recover the ball or covering unnecessary counters.

But conceding a jammy goal off a standard corner sucked. Had we kept it tight for the rest of the game to defend a 2-1 lead and hit them on the counter, who knows how it may have ended.

Oh, and all that “Cavani should have had 6” crap. Cavani is a top striker with world class movement, timing, and speed, and that’s the reason he had 6 good looks. But average finishing (it would appear.) He gets a goal a game. That’s the Cavani deal.

Quite the contrast to Olivier Giroud’s current goal-a-game form. 81.8% conversion rate, with the mobility of a sofa. He’s like that old detective series, Ironsides. He’s a buggar to get into the murder scene in that wheelchair, but if you can wangle his chair up the stairs, through the doorway, and over the balcony rail, he’ll have those fuckers dead-to-rights. “Wheel him in. Crane him in.”

Or…bear with me…Giroud’s like the old guy (again in the wheelchair) in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre. “Bring down Granpappy. He’s the best.” Although, tbf, Granpappy was actually rather poor with the hammer when they carried him down. More like Giroud after New Year last season perhaps.

PSG were the better team on the night. Their midfield gave a master class of understated control…but that doesn’t mean Ramsey and Coquelin were shit. They were good. Just not good enough for long enough.

Would a Xhaka-based midfield have been better? Maybe. Probably. Possibly. We’ll see soon enough.